


Knead

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3797641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balin eats too much and Bilbo helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knead

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Poor Balin has not been feeling so well, perhaps all that food and ale at the feast was not such a good idea? Then you will end up with a stomach ache. Bilbo taking pity on his dwarf and giving him a nice belly rub” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11476.html?thread=23475668#t23475668).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

No matter what position he lies in, he still feels awful. 

Relatively, of course. Balin’s slept on rocks and in the middle of the snow and even amidst the heartbreaking rubble of his home, whereas now he’s in a nice, comfy, fully-restored bed right in his old chambers. He lives with his family, his friends, in the mighty halls of Erebor, and he has a veritable feast for dinner every night, especially so on special occasions like this when new treaties are made. 

Unfortunately, Balin’s had too much of a good thing. He ate and drank far too much at the feast, forgetting that he doesn’t have the iron stomach of his brother or the stubborn constitution of Thorin. It felt like a fine idea at the time, but now, no matter which way he rolls, he simply can’t get comfortable. His stomach feels heavy and like it’s constantly churning, ready to either burst right out of him or flood his veins. Both are unpleasant images. He feels particularly foolish; he’s too old for such basic oversights. 

He isn’t surprised when he hears his door creak open, out in the sitting room. Bilbo was acting especially frisky at the feast—in his own hobbit way. It’s just a shame that Balin won’t be able to capitalize on it. He rolls towards the doorway as the footsteps come around the corner, revealing, just as he expected, a bright-eyed hobbit in a checkered robe, bare feet hushed across the stone. He smiles through the candlelight that Balin always leaves lit on his nightstand. As Bilbo creeps towards the bed, he greets, “Balin.”

“Bilbo,” Balin returns, only to groan a moment later, wincing and admitting, “I’m sorry, lad. I’m afraid I’m not feeling up to much shenanigans.” Gentle language for gentle folk. Bilbo gets the meaning and looks sympathetic. 

He slips onto the side of the bed, responding quietly, “I know. You didn’t look that well when you left. I just came to check up on you.”

Even through the soreness around his middle region, Balin’s face splits in a broad smile. He should’ve known that his Bilbo would be so perceptive and sweet. Bilbo reaches down a small hand to brush a few white tufts off Balin’s forehead. Balin reassures him, “It’s only a stomach ache.”

“Do you want a belly rub?”

Balin lifts his eyebrows, but Bilbo looks quite serious. A kind offer to be sure. Though, Balin’s not sure if that would help—it seems like the last thing his cyclical stomach needs is more displacement. On the other hand, it’s very difficult to turn down affection from Bilbo in any form. So he sighs, “That would be nice.”

As soon as he’s said it, Bilbo’s pushing the blankets off Balin. He rolls them up out of the way, then gently guides Balin onto his back. Lying as his lover bids, Balin has to fight to keep a straight face while Bilbo starts pushing up his nightshirt, until it’s bunched across his chest, his fat stomach bulging out. Nodding in satisfaction, as though this is just the way a professional would deliver a proper belly rub, Bilbo straddles Balin’s thighs, sitting down mostly between them. In a way, the pressure on Balin’s legs is a nice distraction from the rest. 

It gets better, as things with Bilbo are wont to do. He puts his warm hands on Balin’s round stomach, and he draws them in a tender circle up to Balin’s ribs. His touch is gentle, light, almost tickling, raking through the little white hairs across Balin’s chest. Then Bilbo trails them down again, his fingers dancing to leave a path of stimulated flesh. Balin’s breath sucks in and holds as Bilbo sets in to rub him in small, concentric circles, each touch more tantalizing than the last. It isn’t anything like the turmoil within; it’s soothing, and it pulls Balin out of his dull ache to the tinge of pleasure along the surface. Bilbo keeps his arms straight and leans with his whole body when he reaches the top of the circles, because he can’t seem to do anything lackluster or without looking ridiculously cute. 

Balin’s had his share of lovers over the years. He’s had tough, he’s had compassionate, but he’s never had the mix of everything that makes up Bilbo Baggins, and he’s never had anyone seem so very _fond_ of him. While Bilbo works, he stares down at Balin’s belly with a loving expression, as though he’d be perfectly content to sit here and chase away Balin’s pains all night. He won’t make it nearly so long, of course; he’s still a very little fellow, with small arms, soft and plump without the dense clench of muscles. His touches are soft and mostly slow. There’s very little pressure, only the pleasantness of a lover’s caress. The candlelight licks at his sides, washing his face in yellow and orange and making him seem extra warm. Balin experiences, as he so often does nowadays, a sense of gratitude: he’s very lucky to have Bilbo in his life. 

When Bilbo’s hands do get tired, his pace slows, his shoulders slightly slumping. Despite never wanting it to end, Balin sighs, “That’s enough, Bilbo.” He reaches out a hand to cup Bilbo’s elbow and slide down to Bilbo’s wrist, delicately taking Bilbo’s hand. He squeezes it once before Bilbo lifts it to his mouth, pecking Balin’s knuckles. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, hushed, like this night is their secret. 

Balin truthfully replies, “Better.” His stomach’s still a tad sore, but the rest of him is pleasant enough, and it’s difficult to concentrate on anything but Bilbo’s smile. 

Bilbo bends down to kiss the bulbous tip of Balin’s nose. Then he settles down beside Balin, reaching to pull the blankets back over them. Balin doesn’t at all protest. Any night with Bilbo is a good night, regardless of his own problems. 

Balin rolls onto his side to avoid the heaviness of the blanket, his nightshirt sill bunched up. Bilbo squirms a bit to get out of his robe, which he folds afterwards to place on the other pillow—they share the first one. Then he snuggles up to Balin, his stomach lightly brushing Balin’s through his nightgown. In the morning, Balin supposes they’ll have to cuddle twice as much to make up for tonight’s lost time. But that’s hardly a hardship.

Bilbo mumbles, “Good night, Balin,” around a sudden yawn.

Balin murmurs, “Thank you, Bilbo,” and closes his eyes.


End file.
